Lisa interjected, ‘Rebecca is going to do a colour piece on the dogs for the Advertiser. But she’s also looking for some information about a guy that’s been protesting the corruption in the greyhound industry and has just been murdered.’
‘You’d be talking about that Will Oliver guy, wouldn’t you?’ replied Rosco. ‘I’ve heard the story on the radio this afternoon. And it’s all the buzz around here. Everyone knows about it.’
‘What are they saying?’ asked Rebecca.
‘That it served him right. That he was a troublemaker and was asking for it. That’s what the big mouths and the corrupt bastards are saying, anyhow. The good guys aren’t saying much. They don’t know who to trust, so they trust no one. Us good guys are feeling a bit anxious. We were hoping this Will Oliver guy might be able to shed some light on the corruption, and maybe something would happen this time. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s been taken care of.’
‘So you think Will Oliver was killed by someone connected with greyhound dog racing?’ asked Rebecca.
‘I don’t know, Bec, but there’s some bad bastards in this game who are capable of it. The only thing is that they aren’t noted for cutting people’s heads off and putting them in horse troughs. That aspect is a bit of a twist. The body, or even head, isn’t normally found when these guys decide they want someone out of the way. If Will Oliver just went missing, never to be found again, that sounds more likely for these guys. These bastards normally don’t like leaving tracks behind.’
‘Interesting point,’ said Rebecca. ‘So who’s behind all the corruption in the dogs and what form does it take?’
‘Corruption is everywhere. It’s multilayered. They rig the race by drugging the dogs to make a killing in the betting ring. They take part of the winners prize purse. They skim money from the gate takings. You name it and they do it, if there is a buck in it. A couple of the officials have been bought off, and even some of the good guys have thrown in the towel and become bad guys. The way they view it is that if they want to remain in the industry, they have to bow to the corruption. It’s a lot like bike racing. Either use drugs or kiss goodbye to your dreams of winning.’
‘What about you, Rosco—have you kissed goodbye to your dreams?’ asked Rebecca.
‘Pretty much. Yeah, I have. I know where the line is, and I ain’t crossing it. Of course I’d like to win. I breed good dogs. But it isn’t worth selling my soul. I’ll just stick to getting satisfaction out of training my dogs and racing them. There’s still some of us good guys around, and even the bad guys give us grudging respect. You just live in hope that one day it will be better. But it’s never going to get better if I and other clean dog owners cave.’
‘Good on you,’ said Rebecca. ‘So who’s the really bad guy?’
‘Well, the biggest, baddest, ugliest guy would be Snakehead. He heads up the dog business for the Hell’s Angels. Snakehead has his guys in key positions all over the track.’
‘What’s his real name?’ continued Rebecca.
‘Don’t know. I don’t think anyone does. Just goes by the name of Snakehead. His name doesn’t appear anywhere officially. It’s his flunkies who get their names on lists. But you see him around here all the time. Most call him Mr Snakehead. I’ve never spoken to him. If I see him coming, I go the opposite way.’
‘A very good tactic,’ said Rebecca.
‘Now if you would excuse me,’ said Rosco, ‘I must get Leah Tard down to the track—he’s due to race in the Golden Bone in about twenty minutes.’
‘Of course,’ said Rebecca. ‘We’ll go on to the terraces to watch the race. Good luck.’
‘Yes, good luck,’ added Penny, who had been listening intently. She put a hand onto Rosco’s shoulder and added, ‘You are a good man, Rosco.’
Rosco gave her a puzzled look. ‘Thanks,’ he said and continued with his work.
‘Jesus, Penny,’ said Lisa. ‘Don’t embarrass the guy.’
Rebecca understood that Lisa, like Rosco and most of their class, was of the view that you don’t praise people directly. Sarcastically maybe, but you don’t embarrass them with putting praise in such blunt terms.
‘Come on,’ said Lisa. ‘Let’s get out of here before Rosco’s head swells to the point that we get stuck in the stall with him.’
Rebecca smiled to herself and followed Penny and Lisa to the terraces.
‘Let’s put a wager on Leah Tard,’ suggested Lisa.
‘Okay,’ said Rebecca, pulling a note out of her purse. ‘Put twenty dollars on the nose for me.’
‘And me,’ added Penny, handing Lisa her twenty-dollar note.
‘Great. I’ll go see Bruce the bookie and be back in a jiffy.’
Rebecca and Penny decided to go to the bar and pick up some drinks to take back to the terrace ahead of the big race. Penny said, ‘I think it would be safest if we stuck to beer tonight, Rebecca. The wine list looks a bit basic.’
‘Sure, whatever,’ replied Rebecca.
Rebecca ordered three beers, which were poured into plastic cups and placed into a cardboard tray. They made their way back to the terraces just as Lisa was returning to the same spot.
‘Bonzer,’ said Lisa. ‘I could go a beer.’ She relieved Rebecca of one of the beers from the tray.
The course announcer bellowed that the dogs were getting ready for the Golden Bone.
‘Now for the big one. That’s right, folks. It’s the Golden Bone, won last year by Archie Doodah. What a race that was. But tonight’s race is going to blow that race away. We have a first-class field! In lane one, we have Proven Daisy out of Blooming Chrysanthemum. In lane two is Sugar Bullet out of Heart Disease. Lane three is Headda Lettuce. What a champion she is. In lane four we have Leah Tard out of Re Tard. Lane five is Kitty Litter, and Moose Head in lane six. What a stellar group, folks. Makes you shake your head at the brilliance of these dogs.’
The announcer went on to name the trainers and give the latest odds.
Rebecca rolled her eyes. ‘What a load of crap. I can’t believe people actually take this seriously.’
‘Shut up, Rebecca,’ said Lisa. ‘Just because it’s not for you doesn’t mean you have to look down your nose at it. You’re the same about the V8 cars as well. You’ve become a bloody snob.’
At this point, Penny looked away. Rebecca knew Penny was thinking the names were nonsense and that the whole setup was comical but had decided it was safer to say nothing.
‘Yeah, yeah. Okay, Lisa. You’re right. Just because it’s not for me, I shouldn’t be so judgmental. I’d like to say it’s good, honest fun, but I don’t think honest would cut it—but that’s not the punter’s fault. I’m sorry.’
Lisa merely grunted. Rebecca was grateful for the sounding of the bell that meant the traps were going to be opened shortly and the mechanical hare would run.
And the race was on. The announcer was speaking so quickly Rebecca could only pick up a few words. She watched as the dogs ran hard around the dirt track. She was trying to see where number four, Leah Tard, was placing. She thought she heard the announcer say that Leah Tard was in first place, with Moose Head only a head behind. It was all over before she knew it. Rebecca was totally confused. The announcer was calling out a time of 29:71 seconds. Up on the screen came the numbers six, four, and three. The announcer was now calling Moose Head as the winner, followed by Leah Tard and Headda Lettuce.
‘Should have gone with a place,’ said Lisa despondently.
‘Well, at least Rosco got a place. He’ll be thrilled with that, as long as he isn’t heavied by the bikies to cough up part of the prize money,’ replied Rebecca.
Just then, the crowd on the terrace below them and immediately to their right began to part, allowing a large man wearing a black-and-white striped suit to pass with his entourage.
‘That’s Snakehead and his flunkies,’ confirmed Lisa, although Rebecca had already guessed as much.
Apart from the rather gaudy suit, his hair was another standout feature. Snakehead’s ha
ir had been died a washed-out orange and was roughly plaited to below his shoulder blades. Even from where they stood, Rebecca could see that Snakehead had a bad case of dandruff. Snakehead’s suit was well worn and crumpled; it hadn’t seen the dry cleaners for some time.
Snakehead and his entourage moved through the crowd and then took a left, heading up to the Hare.
‘So that’s the great man,’ said Rebecca. ‘Can’t say I’m impressed.’
‘He needs a good hairdresser,’ added Penny. ‘He certainly needs some treatment for that dandruff.’
Rebecca stretched. ‘I think I’ve seen enough here, girls. I’m ready to head off. We’ve got the olive harvest tomorrow. It’s going to be an early start.’
Lisa said, ‘Just let me go say goodbye to Rosco. I’ll meet you at the car.’
‘No,’ said Rebecca. ‘We all go together or not at all. We’ll come with you.’
They congratulated Rosco on his second place and said their goodbyes. By the time they started back toward the car, it had started to pour with rain. They made a run for it.
The Olive Harvest
Rebecca’s alarm on her iPhone buzzed at six in the morning. She rolled over, fumbled with the phone in the dark to switch off the alarm, and flopped back in her bed, reluctant to stir. She was physically and mentally exhausted.
When Rebecca had arrived home the previous evening, she’d written up a piece on Will Oliver and his love of greyhound dogs. Rebecca had described the night at the Angle Park Greyhounds and exposed the more seedy side of the industry, being careful not to name or identify any sources that may be in danger if exposed. She added weight to her article by quoting representatives of various activist groups she had phoned. Rebecca was never embarrassed by calling people late at night for a story. She saw it as the lot of a journalist working on a morning paper. Rebecca had found a range of suitable sources on the Advertiser’s extensive contact database, and if a contact turned out not to be a great source, she was able to extract a name and phone number of a better one. Her motto was to never waste a phone call.
She had also called the various members of the management of Greyhound Racing South Australia and put a series of questions to them. Rosco’s confidential background briefing informed Rebecca’s strong line of questioning. As for Snakehead, she thought it best not to identify him just at that moment and referred to him obliquely. Rebecca knew she needed to do a bit more digging and be on solid ground before naming Snakehead. She had sent the copy to Reg. He would take a red pen to her work and get it ‘legalled’ as well.
Today was olive harvest day. Normally it was a day Rebecca looked forward to, but this time was different. She wanted to sleep in. But she also knew she couldn’t let the team down, particularly Jonathan. Besides, it was a chance to mingle with a few of the suspects in Leong Chew’s murder and possibly Will Oliver’s murder.
Rebecca ran through in her head the names of those who were attending the olive harvest that day: Jonathan, Francois, Dorothy, Nick, Jo, Lisa, and Penny. Dorothy had only started to attend a couple of years ago when Nick invited her. Rebecca would have preferred it if she wasn’t there. Reg came some years but was very erratic. He wasn’t coming today.
In the early years, partners and families had come too. The partners and families had tailed off, and now only the diehards turned up, although sometimes a family member would show up for the picnic lunch.
They were all due to meet at the olive grove near Mann Terrace at Gilberton at seven o’clock. Everyone was tasked with bringing something for breakfast and lunch unless they were bringing the myriad of other inventory for the day. Rebecca’s job for breakfast was coffee. For the first few years she had persevered with making up espresso milk coffee in thermos flasks, but by the time they had gotten to drink it, it had never been hot enough—and they had always run out. For the past few years, Rebecca had hired a mobile coffee van with a barista. It cost her a small fortune, but she decided it was worth it.
For lunch, Rebecca had ordered a large spinach, ricotta, leek, and fennel spanakopita from her local caterer. Normally Rebecca baked something herself, but this week had been crazy, and she just had to let go of some of her traditions. But Rebecca had used this caterer many times for various functions, and the food was good. It was also fortunate that the caterer opened at six thirty on Saturday mornings to begin baking for the day. Rebecca would need to drop in on the way to the olive grove to pick up the dish.
Eventually Rebecca slid out of her bed and poked her feet out into the cold air. She made a grab for her bathrobe, which lay on the wing-back chair in the corner of the room. Next to her bed, the chair was the most important piece of furniture in the room. Rebecca would sit in the chair for hours, mostly reading. She had the chair and matching ottoman covered in her favourite colour combination, pink and green. A large lettuce-green woollen throw lay across the chair, and an industrial-looking metal standard lamp sat next to it. It was one of Rebecca’s favourite comfort spots in the house. She passed it longingly.
She shuffled into the bathroom, barely lifting her feet. Ever since she had been a child, family and friends had known that when she didn’t lift her feet, it was a signal to stay clear. It was an indication of exhaustion, which often led to a short fuse.
She stayed in the shower for nearly fifteen minutes, luxuriating in its heat. She particularly liked to feel the hot water fall on her back, and it was an effort to turn the shower off. She brushed her teeth and put on her makeup. At last she was beginning to feel awake and ready to face the day.
Rebecca walked to her wardrobe, no longer shuffling, and opened a couple of the doors that stored her day-to-day casual clothes. Rebecca’s wardrobe ran for the width of her bedroom and had seven doors. The wardrobe was very organised, laid out according to formal, sport, casual, work, and daggy. Clothes were even hung in order of colour. The shoes were stored in their original boxes.
Today was a comfort day and a day to dress warmly. It had continued to rain heavily overnight, so the ground would be muddy. A Wellington-boot kind of day. She dressed pretty much as she had for the dogs the previous night. Old jeans, long-sleeved white T-shirt, and the bottle-green jumper. Rebecca slipped on a loose pair of boat shoes, carrying a pair of thick socks and her Wellington boots with her to the car. She needed coffee. She knew the espresso van should have already pulled up at the olive grove, and the barista would be warming the coffee machine.
Rebecca threw her boots into the car and took the short walk around to Hutt Street and the caterer to pick up the spanakopita. The smell of coffee was overwhelming. She couldn’t resist, and along with picking up the spanakopita, she ordered a long black.
Rebecca sat at the café table on the footpath, sipping her coffee in the cold early morning, knowing the olive grove could wait. Cupping her hands around the mug, Rebecca felt the warmth of the coffee seep into her fingers. Just then, her mobile phone rang. Putting down the mug, she fumbled in her handbag. The display screen on the phone showed it was Gary. Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat.
‘Hello,’ said Rebecca.
‘Hi, Rebecca, it’s me,’ he said, adding more formally, ‘Inspector Gary Jarvie.’
Rebecca looked at her watch. It was five minutes to seven.
‘Yes, good morning, Inspector.’ She tried to sound confident.
‘I’m just ringing to see if you have anything else you need to tell me. I know you have been making your own inquiries.’
Rebecca gave a little gasp and said, ‘Well, I’m only doing my job, Inspector.’
‘Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what you have managed to find out. It could be helpful to us in our murder inquiries.’
Rebecca understood where Gary was coming from. It wouldn’t hurt her to work with him and tell him what she knew. She ran through the events of the last twenty-four hours, including her trip to the dogs. She told him of what she had found out about the bikie gang involvement in the greyhound-racing industry and that Will Oliver had
been onto something prior to his death. She gave him the outline of what would appear in her next article, probably due to be published in the Sunday Mail and online. She noticed it hadn’t made the Saturday edition.
Gary seemed to be listening intently. However, Rebecca suspected her information wasn’t new to him—he probably had eyes on the likes of Snakehead already.
‘Just be careful, Ms Keith,’ Gary said. ‘What are your plans for today?’
‘I’ve got the olive harvest today. I’m heading off to it now,’ said Rebecca.
‘Who’s going?’ inquired Gary.
Rebecca ran through the list of names, knowing this would excite and possibly concern Gary.
‘Well, you certainly have an interesting guest list. I wish I could be there,’ replied Gary.
‘Yes, well, if the circumstances were different,’ said Rebecca. ‘I would have invited you, but I think, given that many of us are murder suspects, you may make a few people uneasy, and my attempts at getting any clues may be thwarted.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Ms Keith. You’re not the police.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’ll be fine. And the reality is that Leong’s and Will’s killer or killers may not be among those who were at the dinner at Wattle House the night before Leong’s head turned up on that platter. Neither you nor I have anything to connect any of them to the killings. At this rate, the whole of Adelaide could be on the suspect list. And if that is the case, I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without being in danger. By the way, what did you find out about the holly that was found in Jonathan’s shed? Is it a match?’
‘You know I can’t divulge any police information, Rebecca.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes then. You would have said there was no connection if there was none. So I take it that Jonathan has been bumped up the suspect list? He didn’t do it, Gary.’ It was the first time during the murder investigation that she had called the detective chief inspector by his first name, and she liked doing so.
‘You know I can’t confirm or deny, so you are just jumping to a conclusion that may not be correct,’ said Gary.
The Popeye Murder Page 13